With clothing scattered across my bed and a sudden, uncharacteristic interest in fashion, my partner watched as I packed my suitcase prior to this trip.

“You are dressing to attract a French boyfriend.” he joked.

“You don’t understand,” I replied.

And he didn’t. People in Europe—France in particular—do not dress like they do in North America. Our casual, relaxed style doesn’t cut it on the streets of Paris (in fact, I’m pretty sure wearing sweatpants in public can get one arrested there). I needed to curate clothing for this trip because I didn’t want to stand out as a tourist. I needed to take the time to accessorize and (ugh!) bring make-up because I wanted to blend in with my surroundings. I don’t do any of this back home because fuck the patriarchy but for some reason I felt compelled to here. When in Paris, you need to bring your A-game.

My A-game required gold and more gold.

On the second day of my trip though, I relaxed this policy a bit because I knew I would get dirty.

For on the second day of my trip, I realized the life I was born to live - being a professional dog walker.

I was to meet my “tour guide”, Juliette, at Bois does Vincennes, a large park on the periphery of the City of Light known historically for being a royal hunting preserve but currently infamous as a haven for prostitution. I’d heard of this prior to visiting and immediately recognized the vans and motorhomes lining the roadways of the park as the mobile brothels where (mostly) African sex workers ply their trade, which is legal in France.

It was mid-morning and at our proposed meeting spot I observed other (more wholesome) activity, mostly joggers and other walkers enjoying a leisurely stroll with their off-leash pets. One man and his dog, a large mixed breed, reminded me of the symbiotic relationship between my late father and dog Reggie. At first all I heard was an older man yelling in a manner that indicated he was greatly annoyed but not angry. At something. I had no idea who he was talking to—or what he was even saying as it went beyond my own fluency—and then, bounding out of the bush, came the dog enjoying himself way too much to go home. The master would just have to adjust his schedule to accommodate these shenanigans. Classic Reg. I always love when vignettes of past events, scenes of a previous life, come back as sweet memory.

After a short wait, Juliette arrived and I saw what was in store for the day. I would be walking, or rather herding, nine dogs of various breed, size and energy level through the lush forests of this park. Most seemed well-behaved and chill but one pooch, a young yellow lab named Pongo, seemed to require extra attention. He wasn’t neutered and at the stage where his playfulness had crossed into a desire to exert dominance over all the other dogs. This didn’t always end well for him.

I asked Juliette about the highest number of dogs she’s walked. “Twenty-three”, she replied. I couldn’t imagine. That went beyond a pack to being an army of dogs. Of the nine we were walking, one dog in particular seemed to take a liking to me. A flat-coated retriever shadowed me for nearly the entire walk, occasionally bringing me gifts in the form of a stick with me offering thanks in the form of head and belly rubs. I have since forgotten his name - he didn’t require the obedience that Pongo needed - but he was a very good boy. 14/10.

This experience was one of the highlights of my trip and I wish I would have had more time to explore Bois des Vincennes as it really is a peaceful respite from the crowds in the city proper. Juliette was amazing. The dogs were a riot. Jet lag was starting to hit though, and after a few hours of dog-walking I had to make my way back to the houseboat for a much needed nap.

After I picked up a traditional baguette and eclair of course.

I had no idea that within a few hours I would bear witness to history.

To follow the adventures of Juliette and her army of dogs, follow @dogsdehors on Instagram.

Was he history’s greatest military strategist, laying the foundation for France to become a twentieth century (and beyond) world superpower of social, political and economic might?

Or was he the physical manifestation of ambition and ego in its most pungent form, a tyrant who discarded treaty and initiated concurrent conflict resulting in the immeasurable loss of life and culture through plundering and war?

The answer, of course, depends on who you ask. In France, Napoleon is revered. His monogram, visage and legend on display all around Paris, perhaps never more boldly than at Les Invalides his final resting place. You can’t escape the structure. It’s dome—covered in 14kg of gold leaf—is as much an icon of the city’s skyline as the Eiffel Tower (which is just a short walk away). I hadn’t visited this site before and thus made it my first stop, on my first day.

His many achievements outside of military conquest include creation of a Civil Code, the Council of State, the Bank of France, a national audit office, a centralized administrative system, standardized eduction for all, the metric system, and freedom of religion—all of which laid the foundations for change across Europe and eventually the world … but my first introduction to Napoleon was through Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, one of my favourite movies as a kid. It’s only over the past decade, one in which I’ve studied the French Revolution and its aftermath with great interest, that I’ve become intrigued by his person and historical significance.

The first part of Les Invalides that I visited was his tomb. This seemed to be the most popular area of the national monument, which also includes the Musee de l’Armée (the military museum). Everyone seemed in awe as they walked in near silence through the structure, admiring its sky-scraping pillars, ceiling murals, and general grandeur. It was the resting place of a king (as I’m sure he wanted)! The crypt gave an equally impressive view with twelve angelic Victory statues surrounding Napoleon’s sarcophagus, each representing a successful military campaign. I was captivated by the marble work on these figures. Their solemn faces eerily lifelike and haunting.

Afterwards, I visited part of the Musee de l’Armée. I regret not exploring the entire museum as it was quite fascinating but jet lag had started to settle in and I was looking forward to being rocked to sleep on my houseboat by the waves of passing watercraft. I did chance upon two items though that gave me pause: 1) actual clothing worn by Napoleon Bonaparte (he was as tiny as the rumours suggest); and, 2) his famous bicorne hat, weathered with time and the weight of myth.

So what is my opinion of Napoleon? In this age where we question the past through the lens of the present, it might not be socially acceptable to admit but I think Napoleon was one of the most fascinating, complex figures in history. An outsider of little persuasion who rose through the ranks to become one of the most influential beings the world has ever known is quite the life lived. Of his time, he was without peer.

He was described by one historian as “the most competent man who ever lived” and very well might have been.

The main reason I yearned to return to France was to appreciate—and learn from—their culinary prowess. In my opinion, the country has the best cuisine in the world, meticulously presented and flavoured to perfection. Now that I have been learning how to properly cook, I wanted to test my evolved palette further and explore flavour pairings I might not be exposed to on the Canadian prairies. I also wanted to see the difference terroir made; how the land, nourished by a different sun, soil, rainfall and hand, influenced the taste of common ingredients compared to my end of the world. On several occasions prior to the trip, I asked my friend and travel companion to not judge me on how excited I was to try the local garlic (spoiler alert: I was really excited!).

But cooking was to follow in the days to come. Upon arrival on April 14, I needed to make my way to a houseboat I rented.

After a bumpy flight landing in which I genuinely thought I’d be exiting the craft via an inflatable slide, I made my way to central Paris via the RER train exiting at the station near my favourite site in Paris, Notre-Dame Cathedral. Notre-Dame is the most visited attraction in Paris, moreso even than the Eiffel Tower. It is a place of living history, site of both Joan of Arc’s beautification and Napoleon’s crowning as emperor amongst other prestigious events. It was also the start of holy week in Paris, a time in which the church would be extra busy. The lines outside of it certainly indicated increased activity. After marvelling at it’s familiar exterior, I took the first selfie of my trip standing in front of it. A full visit was planned later in the week:

The Paris Marathon was happening as I made my way towards the houseboat parked near the Louvre on the River Seine. Notre-Dame to this location was roughly a thirty-minute walk (lugging a suitcase) through some of the most scenic parts of Paris. I was surprisingly energetic; after most long-distance trips, I crash in my hotel room for the remainder of the day catching up on sleep. It always feels wasteful, even though the body desperately needs it. But not this time. Paris brings me to life. I almost don’t want to sleep at all when I visit, for fear of missing out on some of the splendour. There is no comparable place in the world.

Arriving at the boat, the Bateau Johanna de Paris, my host warmly greeted me and invited me for coffee. With brief introductions, we realized we had a lot in common; she was a British national of Indian descent married to an Englishman, while I was an English/French Canadian mutt coupled with a man from Kerala. Despite the shrinking nature of the world, it is certainly not common and conversation flowed to the challenges of this particular type of interracial courtship. “You will never understand the societal influence,” she seemed to warn, although I already understood. “It takes a strong individual to counter it.” I felt my rebellious instigator of a partner would have appreciated this. His bold nature, and desire for experience and exploration in contrast to firm (and seemingly unnegotiable) cultural boundaries, seemed to mirror hers.

Our well-rounded discussion also fell upon the ongoing Yellow Vest Movement protests that have taken place since the fall of 2018. With the goal of pressuring government to implement economic reform measures to improve the standard of living for all, the mass demonstrations have (so far) resulted in the death of twelve citizens and historical sites, like the Arc du Triomphe, being vandalized. Not fully comprehending the situation, I didn’t really have an opinion other than historical sites should remain off-limits for preservations sake. My host didn’t agree. “The only way to get their message across is through disruption. The past is the past; these people need help today.”

On Saturday night, I can normally be found on my couch, in my velvet pyjama bottoms and faded Gudetama t-shirt, using my partner’s chest as a makeshift pillow as we watch nature documentaries on Netflix. The cocoon of our living room offering the solace craved by two introverts after a hectic week. A recent switch in our predictability though—at my unknowing behest—brought this splendour state to a sudden halt as I was confronted with memories that I’ve tried to keep at bay.

It was a simple change. Watching a new program listed in my recommendations list that was written, directed and starring one of my favourite comedians, Ricky Gervais. I assumed it was a comedy, and, at times, it is but ‘After Life’ is moreso an unflinching, uncomfortable, honest portrayal of grief and how it leaves those left behind to grapple uncharted emotions after losing a loved one. As we watched it on this particular Saturday night, I tried my hardest to hide the tears streaming down my face. To somehow cloak how relatable what I saw on screen was to my own reality. My partner knows … but I’ve always felt that until loss this deep happens to one personally, you don’t really understand. His parents are alive and healthy. It’s been five years since my father and best friend passed away in a matter of months after an unexpected terminal cancer diagnosis. And it’s been five years since my mother was hurled into a state of loneliness and depression that I, as an only child, have made my main duty in life to offset. It’s been a lot to shoulder and I feel the weight of it every day.

A scene in episode three really hit a nerve. In it, the main character reflects upon memories of the wife he lost while at one of their favourite places, the beach. The contrast between the love and laughter of the past with the sorrow and sadness of the present was incredibly well-acted. It made me ponder how I would feel, how I might viscerally react, during an upcoming trip to a place my father and I shared so many beautiful memories including our last adventure together just two months before he passed.

For in one week, I would be flying to Paris. It is a place forever intertwined with my own life story. A city that has provided inspiration, enchantment and hope (in addition to maternal family lineage).

I wandered an art gallery on a recent lazy Sunday afternoon, taking in a somewhat underwhelming feature on work that claimed to define the Eighties, when I chanced upon a small, almost hidden, exhibit located in a side room that showcased Canadian artist David Blackwood. Upon entering the space, I became completely enthralled by his art—the style, the intricacy of his line work, the restrained, yet impactful, use of colour, and the haunting visual narrative he shared of his home province of Newfoundland. It was spellbinding. I am absolutely in love with his craft.

I’ve never visited the Maritimes but feel I’ve gotten a glimpse into this magical world and am left truly inspired. Check out selections from David’s body of work below:

I grew up in St. Norbert, a community on the southernmost edge of Winnipeg. It offered the best of both worlds for my formative years - adjacency to a multi-cultural city known for punching above weight in regards to artistic output and a landscape that invited exploration with its fields, forests and historical ruins. My imagination was constantly stimulated and inspired.

Some of my most vivid memories involve exploring this land with a faithful companion and in my three dog life, a ninety pound lab-cross named Reggie often played this role. Taking him out was never a ten minute jaunt but rather a multi-hour journey in which I patiently waited as he chased wild hares, marked every tree, and even stood ground against coyote while I nervously tried to coax him to retreat in the opposite direction. This time spent in nature on the periphery of society gave me deep appreciation for nature, wildlife and our need to conserve it.

The next piece in my Canadiana Collection pays homage to St. Norbert, as well as the magical places (and creatures) I encountered while living there.

It’s no secret that I love dogs. I feel they are angels on earth and have provided some of the best companionship I have ever known in life (growing up as an only child, that meant a lot). Below is a list of the most heavenly of these creatures I follow on social media:

This is HANDS-DOWN my favourite Instagram account to follow of any genre. Beaux is an absolute delight that makes me smile and laugh daily. His positive reinforcement—that every day can be the best day ever—are as good as any Buddhist mantra. Beaux was born with a cranial deformity due to lack of room in his mother’s womb amongst a litter of seven puppies. Because of this condition, his breeder gave him away to someone that didn’t have his best interests in mind, leaving him chained up in a backyard for years with little food and virtually no veterinary care. He was eventually rescued and made his way into the home of a family that spoils him more than I spoil my Monty (and trust me, that’s a lot). Today, he’s quickly becoming a social media sensation whom I’m sure will have his own line of ties some day.

Maggie has had a tough start to life. She suffered from horrendous abuse that included being shot at, which resulted in blindness, and having her ear cut off. Despite facing these cruel hardships, she has regained her trust for humans and is now adopted by a loving family that provides all the love, cuddles and Milkbones her heart desires (and deserves). I love seeing happy endings like this.

I first saw Mugsy on a news report about animal cruelty. She was adopted from a rescue organization in Iran that cared for her after having corrosive acid thrown at her face. Mugsy now lives the good life in Vancouver where she is receiving further surgical procedures to treat her injuries. She may look different but her loving spirit proves that beauty is only skin-deep.

Jack is a special-needs pet that was paralyzed after being attacked by another dog. He has no feeling in his back legs or bowels and uses a custom wheelchair to scoot around and do zoomies. He was adopted last year from a shelter and his new family aims to dispel the myth that a disabled pet is more of a challenge.

I first encountered Pirate’s story via a Dodo video (that, like most of them, made me cry). Pirate spent over seven years at an Oahu, Hawaii, shelter without being adopted. Finally, the right family came along and welcomed her into their home where they have committed to providing an indulgent, spoiled existence for her remaining twilight years. Well deserved and well worth a follow to see how unconditional love doesn’t diminish with age.